Chapter 7
Because Mr. Dombrowski had left his apartment in slippers to warn everyone not to go downstairs.
I added one of the dining chairs.
Then stood back.
"This is stupid."
I left them there.
My mind had changed modes.
Before Dombrowski, I'd been collecting information.
After Dombrowski, I started making decisions.
Stay inside. Keep the phone charged. Shoes on. Backpack ready. Know how to leave if necessary.
I put on jeans and the hiking shoes.
I put a long-sleeve shirt in the bag and kept the T-shirt on.
Then I looked for something I could use as a weapon.
Weapon. The word felt absurd.
I owned no gun or baseball bat, and kitchen knives seemed like a terrible choice if the goal was keeping someone away from me.
Under the sink I found a small hammer.
Sixteen ounces. Rubber grip. I'd used it mostly to hang pictures. I swung it once.
Too short.
The utility closet offered a broom and collapsible snow shovel. The broom gave me distance, but I doubted it would stop anyone determined to get through it.
I took the hammer.
Set it beside the backpack.
My phone buzzed.
Aaron.
Home. Traffic insane. Jamie with me.
I exhaled.
Good. Lock up.
He replied:
Already did
Then:
Gabe
I waited.
The hospital video wasn't fake
I typed:
How do you know
His reply took almost a minute.
Saw something like it on Johnson
Then:
Guy got hit by a car and got back up
I stared at the screen.
You actually saw that?
Yes. His leg was fucked up. He still got up.
I looked toward my door.
Walter downstairs. The injured woman. Dombrowski saying something was wrong with people.
I typed:
Could be drugs
Then deleted it.
What drug made a broken leg irrelevant?
I wrote:
Stay inside
Aaron answered:
You too
I put the phone down.
At 1:42, screaming came from downstairs.
A man's voice.
Then a crash.
Another voice, higher.
Someone shouted, "Get off him!"
I moved toward the front door.
Stopped myself before touching it.
Listened.
The screaming became wet and raw, almost animal.
I backed away.
Then footsteps struck the stairwell.
Fast.
Coming up.
I grabbed the hammer.
The footsteps reached the third floor.
Someone ran down the hall.
I looked through the peephole.
A woman in pajama pants ran past.
I'd seen her before.
Second floor.
Maybe 211.
Blood ran down one arm.
She slapped at Marcy's door.
"Let me in!"
No answer.
"Please!"
The woman turned toward mine.
I stepped back from the peephole even though she couldn't see me.
She hit my door.
"Gabe?"
My stomach tightened.
She knew my name, maybe from hearing Dombrowski earlier.
"Please open."
I didn't.
"Gabe."
I moved closer.
"Are you hurt?"
"Yes."
"What happened?"
"I don't know."
"Did somebody bite you?"
Silence.
Then, "Please open the door."
That was an answer.
She started crying.
Or what sounded like crying.
"I don't know what's happening."
Neither did I.
That was the worst part.
If she'd been stabbed, fallen, or been assaulted, I'd open the door and call the police.
But if the stories were true—
What stories?
Internet garbage?
A frightened old man?
Aaron claiming he'd seen somebody stand after being hit by a car?
She knocked again.
Softer this time.
"Gabe, please."
My hand actually moved toward the chain.
I stopped it.
"Call 911."
"They aren't answering."
"I know."
"Gabe."
"I'm sorry."
Her crying stopped.
For several seconds neither of us spoke.
Then she said, "Okay."
Quietly.
She walked away, tried the next door, then another. Nobody opened. She disappeared toward the far stairwell.
I stood there afterward feeling like the worst person alive.
I had left an injured woman in a hallway.
Maybe she needed help. Maybe I'd just failed the easiest moral test imaginable because I'd watched too many videos on my phone.
You don't know.
That was the problem.
I didn't know.
Something struck the stairwell door at the end of the hall.
The woman screamed.
A second scream joined hers.
I moved away from the peephole.
Three heavy impacts.
Then silence.
I did not open the door.